Page 9 of The Best Kind of Forever
“You wish you caught your boyfriend bumping his ugly with a household object?”
I glide my hand through my hair, suddenly wishing I hadn’t finished my drink so quickly, but if I order another, my bank account is going to cry. I probably won’t even have enough for groceries this week.
“I wish it was as simple as boy problems.”
My knight in shining armor casts me an easygoing grin. “Does this mean you don’t have a boyfriend?”
He guns me down with a look that has my lungs decompressing all the air out of my body, and I swallow the leftover alcohol greasing my throat.
“Is that your way of flirting with me? Dazzling me with an award-winning smile and hoping my jeans will just fly off like tear-away pants?”
“Actually, most women tell me I don’t even need to smile. One look at me and they’re as naked as the day they were born.”
“Oh, how charming.”
He winks at me. “It’s a gift, really.”
Nerves wring my stomach, and heat spreads through me like a well-trained wildfire. I have no doubt in my mind that this guy has a roster full of ladies. Hell, his Friday nights probably consist of orgies galore.
“Well, your gift isn’t needed here. I’m doing perfectly fine, thank you.” I gesture to the accumulation of empty shot glasses stacked near me.
A lie. A lie that tastes worse than the bite of tequila.
He turns to face me, outstretching one arm against the bar counter, boxing me in from making a quick getaway. “Who says I was flirting with you?” he quips, spying the motion my tongue makes as it flicks out over my bottom lip.
There’s something in the way he’s staring at me—something that puts my entire body on high alert, and something that has my vagina rubbing her nonexistent hands together in the belief that she’s about to get some tonight. Which, she’s not.
A retort struggles to climb up my esophagus.
He leans in just a smidge, enough for his minty breath to feather over my face. “If I was flirting with you, you’d know.”
Heel, girl!
I steer my head away to hide the growing blush on my cheeks. Would I mind this mystery guy taking me in the bathroom and bending me over the sink? No. Do I think there’s a good chance of that happening tonight? Definitely not.
“So, what’s the real reason you’re here?” he finally asks, and the pain of the night returns.
I’ve found that when people ask how you’re doing, a lot of times they don’t really care how you answer. They only ask to be polite.
So I do the stupid thing and answer him truthfully, because I’m never going to see him again, and I need to get this weight off my chest before I shatter into a million pieces.
Poor guy. I’m not even giving him a chance to run.
Tears slather my cheeks with a warm wetness that intermingles with the spoiled air. “My brother. He, um, died seven years ago. His name was Roden. He was dealing with a lot mentally, and I didn’t get him the help he needed.”
I don’t bother looking over, nor do I bother with wiping the snot on my face. I don’t tell many people about what happened to Roden. One, I don’t like to relive it. Two, it’s not my story to tell. When my grandmother on my mother’s side passed away, the kids in elementary school only said one thing to me, and that was “I’m sorry.” I get it. I mean, there’s really no perfect way to respond to that.
But “sorry” is an empty word. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a placeholder that people use because they could notpossiblyimagine what it’s like to lose a best friend, a platonic soulmate, or the only other person in the universe who understands you. It was me and Roden against the world—against my parents. So color me surprised when the first word out of this stranger’s mouth isn’t the S-word.
“My mother died of cancer when I was eight.”
Are we sharing sob stories with each other? I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that. Shit, I can’t say the S-word now.
“She was my best friend. She was also the best person I’ve ever met. She was caring and kind, and it was hard seeing her grow sicker. I wish I could’ve given her the life that she gave me. And I know we’re strangers, but I’m all too familiar with that guilt you’re describing—that feeling that it should’ve been you instead.”
“It feels like you’re rubbing it in their face by being alive…like you’re disrespecting them by moving on. I always feel guilty when I’m happy, because I know Roden wasn’t for the majority of his life.”
“That’s valid, and even though I didn’t know your brother, I think he’d want you to live your life and be happy.”
